Royalty
by you're my Star
Summary: DP. Pointless drabble. 'Things have to change eventually.'


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off it. It belongs to Rowling. So don't come 'round here looking for a lawsuit. I also don't own the lyrics at the beginning.

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_Would you go with me if we were lost in fields of clover? Would we walk even closer, until the trip was over? And would it be okay, if I didn't know the way..._ **-Josh Turner, Would You Go With Me.**

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"Do you remember?" The girl asks. They're sitting in the back of the Hog's Head. She sips some Firewhiskey, delicately. Bringing what elegance and grace she can into this tasteless room, this shoddy place. She runs a hand through her black hair, trying - and failing - to salvage her dignity, her sophistication.

"Remember _what_, Pansy?" The boy is irritable. This is the boy's default setting. Except for on those rare days, when he's with the girl, the only remainder of a life he's left behind, a broken shard from what he used to have. Sometimes he really does cherish her. But, you see, this boy would never admit to feeling anything toward her. The boy never admits to feeling anything.

"…Everything," she answers quietly, chewing the inside of her lip, "Do you remember any of it, Malfoy?"

"Of course I do."

"We used to be so _happy_. We had Gryffindors to tease, and Hufflepuffs to intimidate. We had parents who bought us whatever we wanted."

The boy smirks at this, remembering his mother. And then his smirk flickers, falters, fades. He's glimpsed his mother once in the past year, and she had looked so broken, (he had looked away).

"Remember singing 'Weasley is our King'? I don't know if I ever told you, but those lyrics were quite brilliant, really." The girl raises an eyebrow and nods once in silent acknowledgement of his superiority. The boy is _her _king.

"You didn't have to _tell _me, Parkinson, I already knew." The boy flashes a characteristically arrogant grin, and the girl enjoys every moment of watching that happiness cross his face, however fleeting it may be.

"Things have really changed." She sighs, looking down at the dusty, sticky tabletop. The remnants of someone's spilled Butterbeer from the night before adorn the surface. It's quite nauseating, and the girl takes care not to put her elbows on the table.

"Things have to change, eventually." He looks off into the distance as he says this, they both believe it, and they both wish it weren't so.

"Did you ever think it would come to this? To us sitting at the table in the back of a filthy pub, discussing what could have been over Firewhiskey? The two most well bred people to attend Hogwarts reduced to… _this_. Who would have guessed." The girl's eyes fill with hurt, and she straightens her posture, salvaging her dignity, and takes a hearty swig from her Firewhiskey.

He regards her for a moment, her sadness tugs at his heart. Because the boy knows that it is all his fault she feels like this, he led, she followed. A part of this boy knows, _just _knows, that he's too in love with her too let her come with him, and too in love with her to let her go.

He's just selfish, really. He wants to keep her.

"No," he says slowly, shaking his head, "I never thought I'd be sitting here with the likes of _a Parkinson _-" the boy pauses and grins, "-discussing what could have been in this shabby hole-in-the-wall place."

"Let's leave, then."

Draco downs the remainder of his Firewhiskey. "Bloody hell, Parkinson, I thought you'd never suggest it." He replies, rising from his seat abruptly.

"You were getting far too fond of this place, I had to get you out of here before you got too attached." The girl answers, standing by his side. He smiles down at her, she smirks up at him. He won't sacrifice his pride (and tell her), she can't salvage her dignity (and walk tall). They're both damaged, and that's just another reason they're stuck with each other.

The girl shivers.

Wordlessly, he takes his black cloak from around his own shoulders, the chilled air seeping through the thin fabrics of his shirt. The boy drapes it around her thin shoulders, like she's royalty, and places a hand on the small of her back, leading her out of the filthy building.

A silent agreement surrounds them; they won't be returning to this bloody place anytime soon.

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**Author's Note:** I haven't posted in ages! I went on a huge writing binge, and then I ran out of fuel. ;) But I'm back at it. This story was obviously pointless, but also kind of the future I envision Pansy and Draco being subjected to. It's unedited, so I apoligize for mistakes.

If you've made it this far, you may as well review. and feel free to offer up (constructive) criticism and point out any errors... I encourage it, in fact. Thanks for reading. :)


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